


5+1 Times Sherlock Let Someone See His Wings

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Wingfic, Winglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3730408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times other people had seen his wings.  John was the only one of significance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5+1 Times Sherlock Let Someone See His Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [5+1 раз, когда Шерлок показал свои крылья](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4412627) by [Bothersome_Arya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bothersome_Arya/pseuds/Bothersome_Arya)



> This is only a 5+1 in the most general sense, but there was a good deal of fuzziness in the construction of this story so I'll let the designation stand. I chose not to use archive warnings because even though I don't consider anything here to actually be nonconsensual, one of the scenes may be trigger-y for some people.
> 
> I seem to be working my way through all the fanfic tropes, one at a time. Wingfic has always been one of my favorites :-)

Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times other people had seen his wings.

*

The first was when he was very small and his wings had been barely-formed nubs emerging from his shoulderblades. There’d been a boy visiting the neighboring estate - perhaps a year or two older than Sherlock, bigger but not old enough to require an exchange of names or adult permission before they spent one heady afternoon rambling around the woods and down to the river. Sherlock was supposed to be napping but had slipped past his nanny while she dozed. It was a blissful three hours before anyone thought to ask where he’d gone.

The boy had been exhilarating, vivacious and curious and full of interesting facts about nature. Sherlock had followed in rapt fascination as the boy delivered a breathless narration of everything he knew, in the way only six-year-olds can, and he had _wanted._ Wanted to impress this boy, wanted to be the center of that incredible vortex of attention and energy. So he’d wriggled out of his shirt, turned his back, and willed his stubby wings into existence.

“Wow.” The boy had stared, awed, then extended a finger to touch the ripple of downy feathers. Sherlock’s plumage hadn’t settled into its full adult colors yet, but the feathers still shimmered and shifted at the touch, the soft grays darkening into a rusty red as Sherlock struggled to acclimate to the feeling of _someone else_ seeing and touching this intimate part of him. His wings were sensitive, exquisitely so, but the boy seemed to understand and didn’t push to do more than gently stroke one leading edge with a single finger.

He didn’t ask how it was possible, because they were boys and full of imagination and one didn’t question that sort of thing. He didn’t call Sherlock a freak, either. He did say Sherlock was amazing, his voice full of wonder, and Sherlock clung to the memory of that single word for years to come.

*

The second was his father. It was several weeks after the initial incident (for which Sherlock and his nanny had both been punished severely), and his father was once again drunk at two in the afternoon.

“May I see your wings?” Sherlock had asked him. It was a natural question, given how Sherlock’s own wings were still in their in-between state with some feathers bold and strong and others thin and curled and wispy. Sherlock had been beside himself with curiosity to know what someone else’s wings looked like.

His father had just cursed and grumbled at him. It was his usual response, so Sherlock hadn’t been too surprised. This was _important,_ though, so Sherlock had only hesitated a moment before twisting out of his little button-down and exhaling with the little _pop_ that brought his wings into the tangible plane. “I think I’m getting close to a moult,” he offered. The down stayed a medium gray no matter what, but the adult feathers peeking through were a mixture of browns and tans and burnt oranges and shifted shades as Sherlock looked at them.

His father had remained completely still for several seconds, eyes wide, staring. And then he’d exploded forward, the flat of his palm impacting the side of Sherlock’s face, his booted foot delivering a swift kick to the tender skin of Sherlock’s wingpit.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, freak?” he demanded. Another slap, more easily dodged this time. “Sell you a circus, that’s what I should do. You’re not even human, are you? Jesus. Your mother is a fucking whore, because you can’t possibly be mine. Get away from me!”

Sherlock had struggled to hide his wings again, fighting through the tears, and barely made it to his room before the sobs came. For ages he lay on his stomach on his bed, just wishing he were someone else. Someone ordinary. Someone with a father who didn’t call him a freak. He unfurled his wings and let them fold over him, blocking the chill of the room from settling in on his bare back. A few feathers were crushed, from what he was able to twist and see, and the feathers under his father’s kick had shifted to almost a solid black with the pain, but nothing was broken-

“So it’s true.”

Sherlock whipped his head around and saw Mycroft standing in the doorway, his face full of pity. “Go away,” he grumbled.

“Father said you somehow grew wings. I assumed it was just a drunken hallucination, but . . . that’s not a costume, is it.”

Sherlock shook his head no.

“Are they - do you need the first aid kit?”

Sherlock sat up, then, and actually _looked_ at his brother. Shook his head no again. Mycroft came over and sat on the bed next to him, close enough to touch but far enough that they wouldn’t have to unless Sherlock wanted it. Mycroft closed his eyes and kept his hands in his lap.

“Different can be good,” he said quietly once it became obvious Sherlock wasn’t going to volunteer any more information. “People are - it’s not an advantage to care what they think, Sherlock. Even Mummy and Daddy.”

“What about you?”

Mycroft blew out a long breath. “I will always protect you, and I will always look out for you - but yes, even me. And it will make my job a lot easier if you tried to seem more . . . normal.”

“I didn’t know he didn’t have wings,” Sherlock protested - but without much heat, because he _had_ known, really. Had been able to deduce that he was unique even without their father’s confirmation. “And anyway, it’s not like I asked to grow them.”

“I know,” Mycroft said with a sad smile. “And you aren’t normal, will never be. Not just because of the wings - you’re a Holmes. I’m not normal either. But other people . . . they see an anomaly and they fight it, Sherlock. They will _cut you down._ Hide your wings, hide your brilliance. It’s the only way to get along.”

*

He eventually resolved to acquiesce to the former, but not the latter. It never worked, anyway - playing normal meant being _boring._ He only let his wings free when he couldn’t stand it anymore, and then only when he was in his bedroom at home or in his secret bolt-hole in the attic of the chapel at school, where everyone assumed the door had been locked for ages but no one suspected a skinny boy could open and shimmy through a ventilation window. The attic was a veritable museum of schoolyears past - broken furniture, stacks of old papers, choir vestments which hadn’t been worn for at least two generations. And in the middle, a gloriously large open space in which Sherlock could strip off his shirt and stretch out his wings as far as they could reach. An eight-foot-three-inch span by the time he reached puberty (he measured their growth at six-month intervals). The colors varied according to his mood - as near as he could tell, his feathers’ resting shade was a rather dull medium gray, but when he was hurt or embarrassed they darkened and dulled and when he was cheerful or excited they were more vibrant, nearly shimmering in their pearlescence. They were still a secret, but they were _his_ and they were amazing and that would have to do.

*

The wings stayed a secret until Sherlock discovered drugs. He was in the middle of his first year of uni and Victor Trevor was the single most interesting human being Sherlock had ever met. Victor introduced Sherlock to pub nights, and to shagging, and to the pleasures of chemically altering his brain in semi-predictable ways. They were never “friends,” exactly - not the way Victor would have defined it, certainly - but they fucked on a regular basis and Victor didn’t make fun of Sherlock like everyone else did except for an occasional off-handed comment which Sherlock tried very hard to convince himself was just teasing.

And then one day when they were both high, lolling around on Victor’s bed, Victor lazily mouthing at Sherlock’s nipples, Victor rolled over onto his back and sighed.

“Bored.”

“That’s usually my line,” Sherlock murmured from beside him.

“Got it from you.”

 _Probably._ “Want to fuck me?” That was usually the answer to most of Victor’s moods.

But Victor just grunted and waved a hand vaguely in the air above them. “Want something new,” he proclaimed. “Tell me something new about yourself, Sherlock. Something you’d never admit if we weren’t high.”

It seemed like the perfect time, especially since Sherlock was feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges and they were both naked already and suddenly it occurred to him that as sensitive as his wings were, they’d probably feel even better being loose when he was high like this. “Okay, but I haven’t done this in years.”

“Done what?” Victor rolled over on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows, watching Sherlock curiously.

“ . . . This.” Sherlock took a breath and eased it out, concentrating as hard as his chemically-slowed brain would allow, and then there was a quiet _pop_ and his wings were stretched lazily over them.

“ . . . _the fuck?_ " Victor breathed, eyes wide.

“I always hide them. But they’re extremely sensitive - probably could call them an erogenous zone, I wouldn’t know. Nobody’s touched them since I was four years old.”

“May I?” Victor paused, one hand hovering mere inches away, until Sherlock nodded. He let his palm rest on the leading edge of Sherlock’s right wing and Sherlock shivered all over at the sensation. “Oh, they _are_ sensitive,” Victor said, an assessing look stealing over his face. “Or you’re still high as a kite. _God._ Do you ever wank with them?”

Sherlock blinked and shot him what was supposed to be a sarcastically raised eyebrow, although everything was still a bit muddled and his reaction time wasn’t what it usually should have been. “I’m not even sure how that would work.”

“I dunno.” Victor stroked down the face of the wing, slightly more pressure this time, and Sherlock found himself practically panting even though neither of them had even glanced at his cock. “Christ, they’re soft. Mind if _I_ wank with them?”

“How-”

“Like this.” He popped up to his knees, wrenched Sherlock around by the shoulders so he was facing the headboard of the bed. “You can touch yourself too, if you want.”

Sherlock reached for his cock, but was interrupted by Victor _yanking_ on his primary flight feathers, twisting both wings at an awkward angle so he could shove his own cock up between them. It couldn’t have provided much, if any, friction, but Victor always got off on Sherlock’s discomfort more than anything else and Sherlock was very definitely wincing in pain as Victor thrust.

“Come on, touch yourself.”

“I - it hurts, please-”

“Oh, _god_ , yes,” Victor growled. “Beg me for it.”

“Fuck.” Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to shift his shoulderblades further backwards, tried to twist so it didn’t _fucking hurt_ so badly, but Victor just grabbed a tighter handful of feathers and mashed them up against his cock.

“Would have thought this would tickle,” he said in a low voice. “God, you really are a freak, aren’t you. Christ.”

“Victor-”

“Oh, stop snivelling. I’ll only be a minute.” He picked up the pace, snapping his hips and tugging so Sherlock was bent back at an awkward angle and trying not to actually sob at how intense Victor’s grip felt on him. The sound of Sherlock’s choppy breathing only spurred Victor on faster, though, until he finally came with a grunt and spilled all over Sherlock’s dusky-gray feathers (they had been a more vibrant cream-color before) and wiped off his sticky hands on Sherlock’s major coverts before rolling away with an annoyed groan. “Fuck, that was weird.”

Sherlock knelt motionless, wings radiating a dull ache throughout his body. He wasn’t hard anymore, was just sore all over, even though only his wings had been torqued.

Victor noticed and rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Sherl. That felt good, but it wasn’t exactly what I expected. I thought you would - hell, I don’t know. Confess to having stolen a pack of fags once or something.”

“You already knew I’ve done that.”

“Yeah, which is why I said ‘or something.’ You’ve - _fuck._ You’ve got actual wings. Attached to your body.”

“Only when I want them to be - the rest of the time they just . . .” Sherlock shrugged, shoulders still sore. He held his breath for a long moment, closed his eyes, and the wings disappeared.

“Fuck. You’re a real freaky bloke sometimes, you know that?”

Sherlock knew. Everyone always reminded him. He turned away and rolled to reach for his pants. He wasn’t high anymore anyway.

*

The pool stank of chlorine and humidity, as pools tend to do. Sherlock’s heart stopped when he heard John’s voice - “This is a turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” - and even after he quelled his initial shock at the idea John could have been involved (he didn’t believe it, not really, but his brain more or less shut down to process the paradox) he still wasn’t thinking clearly until Moriarty strolled out, giggling.

“Somebody’s been keeping a secret,” he announced in a sing-song voice.

Sherlock glanced at John, then away. His absolute infatuation with the army doctor wasn’t a secret as much as a giant glowing neon sign with a hastily-thrown tarp over it - it was obvious, surely? They both talked around it, avoided the entire concept, and John conspicuously dated women as often as he could manage to fit them into his schedule. If that wasn’t a rejection, Sherlock didn’t know what was. Moriarty looked him up and down and giggled again.

“If you don’t mind,” John cut in, “this parka is rather warm and may possibly be even heavier than all the crap the army made me lug around Kandahar. Could you please get to the part where you announce how clever you are, taunt Sherlock a while, and then let us go so we can hunt you another day? Because Sherlock kept me up with a four-hour violin ‘concert’ last night and I’m tired and I’d rather not stand around all that much longer if it’s all the same to you.”

Moriarty grinned as if John had just done something incredibly clever. “Brave little pup, isn’t he?” he chirped, chucking John playfully on the chin. “I can see why you like him - but then people do get so sentimental about their pets, don’t they?”

 _Enough._ “I have the memory stick - it’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Sherlock extracted it from his coat pocket and held it up, high enough for Moriarty to see what it was. “The missile plans in exchange for John?”

“Oh, no no no.” Moriarty’s face fell. “So hopeful, and yet so _BORING!_ I expected better of you, Sherlock.”

“What, then?” Sherlock demanded. He held his expression carefully neutral, but kept his eyes on John. And couldn’t quite suppress his flinch as three laser sight dots appeared on the doctor’s chest.

“Your _other_ secret,” Moriarty insisted. “The one you showed to an extroverted little boy when you were four years old, and again to your _boyfriend_ at uni. You know what I mean.”

Sherlock’s mind went blank, but he feigned ignorance as best he could. “I didn’t have a boyfriend at uni,” he protested automatically.

Moriarty rolled his eyes, a perfect imitation of Sherlock’s usual expression. “Victor Trevor - the one you let fuck you until you failed out? Never could shut up, snivels and begs a lot when he cries? Remember him? I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t - there was nothing particularly interesting about him, really. Wouldn’t have listened to a thing he had to offer if he hadn’t mentioned your wings.”

John was frowning, squinting at Moriarty and Sherlock in that way he had, but Sherlock was caught entirely unprepared. _How could he possibly have known that-_

“Wings?” John echoed.

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, that’s precious! He really doesn’t know? What, you’ll show Victor but not your live-in one?” He cocked his head, and suddenly the dots on John’s chest split - one stayed over his heart, one drifted up to his forehead, and one slid down to his groin. “This will be entertaining for all of us, then. Come on - show a bloke what you can do.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “John . . .”

“Whatever he’s asking, do it,” John said quietly. “Don’t worry about what you assume I’d think.” The dot on John’s forehead wiggled, a long-distance nudge with the barrel of a gun.

 _Right._ Sherlock took a deep breath and reached down to unbutton his shirt. John’s gaze tracked his fingers, but he didn’t move. Sherlock slid the shirt off, folded it as best he could, and tossed it carefully onto a dry bit of tile at his feet. Moriarty was grinning madly, eyes comically wide-

 _Pop._ Sherlock kept his posture perfectly straight and let the wings unfurl to their full eight feet three inches. He couldn’t bear to look at John, couldn’t bear to see his best friend’s expression as he found out what a freak Sherlock really was, but he did get to see Moriarty’s astonishment turn back into glee. The man literally clapped his hands in excitement, hopping up and down in a little off-kilter rhythm.

“Ooh, they’re _gorgeous!_ I can’t wait to touch - you _will_ let me touch, won’t you?” He glanced meaningfully up at the darkened first floor, where his snipers were presumably deployed.

This was it, then - Moriarty’s goal. To possess and defile the one secret Sherlock had tried to keep hidden for literally his entire life. Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor and nodded silently.

And Moriarty practically skipped over to him. His first touch was actually surprisingly gentle, one long brush from shoulder to wingtip - but then he grabbed a handful of primaries and yanked. Two of them came out in his hand; the others crumpled but stayed rooted. Sherlock stiffened and sucked in a breath - that _hurt_ \- but he adamantly refused to make a sound. There was a muffled _something_ from John’s direction, but Sherlock couldn’t have turned even if he wanted to, not with Moriarty’s hand buried knuckles-deep in his plumage.

“He swore they were soft,” Moriarty murmured. “I assumed he was misremembering.”

John shifted, somewhere off to the side. “Sherlock-”

“QUIET!” Moriarty yelled. And immediately yanked out another handful of pinions. “You’re just the bait, Doctor. I’m done with you now.”

Sherlock’s head jerked up of its own accord. “No-”

“You too,” Moriarty snapped. “I see I’m going to have to explain for some of the slower students in the room: your little pet here is only useful as long as he stays quiet. You don’t want to see how well a .300 works as a bark collar, believe me. _You_ are going to get down on your knees - yes, now - and hold perfectly still while I pluck every bloody feather from those lovely wings of yours. That’s my price for not saying the word and redecorating your charming boyfriend as a cribbage board. I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided I’d like to stuff a pillow with these. Sherlock-down. Hard to get more one-of-a-kind than that, wouldn’t you say?”

 _I bloody well hope you’re allergic to me._ Sherlock slowly lowered himself to his knees, keeping his head tucked and his eyes on the slightly slippery tile floor. Moriarty chuckled again, placated, and speared a hand through Sherlock’s hair to hold him still as he reached down and plucked the outermost primary flight feather on Sherlock’s right wing. He worked seemingly at random, pulling one feather here and then a whole handful of them there, dropping them on the floor like chaff as he worked. Sherlock held his breath against the pain and grimaced and refused to give Moriarty the satisfaction of learning just how painful it was to be plucked alive. The tears pricked at his eyes, but wiping them away would have acknowledged that Moriarty had the power to put them there in the first place. When they started streaming down of their own accord, Sherlock ignored them.

If he hadn’t been watching for John to do _something,_ he might have missed it - just a small gesture, a flick of John’s eyes to the first floor and back. No one else would have been able to interpret it, but then again no one else had the privilege of living with John Watson. Sherlock nodded infinitesimally.

And then they exploded into movement together, as if they’d actually choreographed it instead of Sherlock just hoping like hell John would run when he got the chance. Sherlock still had plenty feathers left to provide cover - he lurched to his feet, elbowing Moriarty sharply in the stomach as he moved, and beat his wings madly. Fire raced through his abused muscles at the effort. Moriarty was making a surprised, pained sound behind him, but all that mattered was that his left wing was between the snipers and John: the red dots were gone from John’s body. John shrugged the parka off, bomb and all, and then there was a _splash_ as the entire upper half of his outfit landed in the pool and John was half-naked just as Sherlock was and it was the first time Sherlock had ever gotten to see John’s scar clearly, but now was obviously not the right moment because Moriarty’s men were surely recalibrating to aim for Sherlock’s back and he had to keep his wings moving, flailing, blurring their ability to get a clear shot-

“Sherlock. _Sherlock._ Please - you can stop. You’ll hurt yourself further.”

John stepped forward and caught Sherlock’s face between his hands. “They’re gone, but we’ve got to hurry - I don’t trust them not to come back.”

 _Oh._ Sherlock paused in his mad twisting and fluttering to listen - and sure enough, the only sound was his own heavy breathing. Moriarty had disappeared, as had (presumably) his gunmen. John’s eyes were magnificently blue, navy in the center lightening to brown around the edges of the iris, but there was no condemnation in them - only the usual mixture of intensity and competence which was the hallmark of Captain Watson in tense situations. Sherlock licked his lips and swallowed heavily. “Hurry. Right.”

“Are you . . .” John gestured with a tilt of his head toward the more seriously injured of Sherlock’s wings. “Can you put those away? Just for now? I’ll take a closer look for you when we get back to the flat.”

“You don’t - you don’t have to,” Sherlock stammered back (and when did he start stammering?). He held his breath, willing his heartbeat to slow, and after several seconds he felt the familiar lightening of his shoulder muscles which indicated the wings were gone.

“I will anyway.” John’s lips pressed together, the hint of a grim smile, and then he took Sherlock’s hand and started tugging him toward the exit.

*

It turned out Sherlock’s magical cab-hailing skills worked significantly less well when he and John were both shirtless. They ended up walking back to 221B, John waving at and Sherlock flipping off every security camera they passed. Mycroft surely knew what had happened already - at least the general location, if not the specifics of the confrontation - but he either hadn’t been able to help or hadn’t deemed it necessary. Either way, Sherlock still felt achy and emotionally raw and John really ought to have been giving him a side-eye _freak_ look by now. He wasn’t, and Sherlock was at a loss for how to explain that.

John held the door open for him and cleared out as much of the clutter from the sitting room as he could reasonably do in just a few minutes’ time. Sherlock awkwardly shuffled a few papers but mostly just eyed John, ready for the inevitable. Which kept not coming.

“Right then.” John paused in the middle of the cleared space and finally looked square at Sherlock. “Paracetamol first, or would you prefer I just patch up what I can?”

Sherlock blinked.

John waited a moment, then nodded and started heading for the bathroom. “Paracetamol it is. You might as well put on the kettle while I dig it out - I could find these things quicker if you’d quit reorganizing the medicine cabinet, you know.”

There wasn’t much point in standing there and gawping at the half-door to the loo while John wasn’t actually in his line of sight, so Sherlock filled the electric kettle.

“Huh. You actually did it,” John announced when he reemerged. He pressed two pills into Sherlock’s palm. “Take those and I’ll get out the tea. Do they still hurt while they’re -” - he made a vague gesture toward Sherlock’s shoulderblades - “- off wherever they go the rest of the time? I mean, we can wait a bit longer if you want, but I’m guessing they’re not going to heal properly if you don’t at least let me put some disinfectant on the places where he broke the skin.”

 _He’s not running away._ The realization buzzed crazily through Sherlock’s brain, obliterating everything else in its path. John was here, knew Sherlock’s almost-forever secret, and he still stood in the kitchen making tea as if nothing was wrong. Not for the first time, Sherlock found himself reeling a bit in awe of the pillar of reliability which was John Watson.

“You’re not - you’re not scared of me,” Sherlock whispered aloud.

“You’d expect me to be?”

Sherlock dropped his gaze and nodded.

“Hey.” John stepped closer, ducked his head so he could get his face in Sherlock’s line of sight. “I’m not leaving you - I mean that.” He let out a little half-laugh. “You probably think I’m mad, sticking around despite all the trouble you get us into but . . . Sherlock, I knew you were extraordinary before. You were amazing then and you’re still amazing now. I fail to see how learning that you’re _quite literally fantastic_ would suddenly make me change my mind about that.”

It was almost too much to take in at once. Sherlock sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, suddenly unable to focus on both admiring John and standing at the same time. John moved around beside him and placed a gentle hand on his bare shoulder.

“Let’s just start with tea then, okay?”

They sat in silence and drank their tea. John didn’t seem to mind that Sherlock kept staring at him - he returned Sherlock’s guilty looks every time with that little smile he only used between the two of them. The wings didn’t hurt at all while they were hidden, although Sherlock’s shoulders were definitely sore from twisting in ways they weren’t used to. He shifted his shoulderblades gingerly, one at a time, testing the range of motion-

“Yeah, let’s have a look.” John plucked Sherlock’s mug from his nerveless fingers and left it in the sink, then offered Sherlock a hand up. He’d never done that before.

Sherlock wanted to protest, wanted to go hide in his room like a sulky teenager, but John’s hand was right _there_ and warm and leaving would mean the moment was over. John led him to the sofa, then turned him gently so he was kneeling on the center cushion facing the wall.

“Right, let’s see.” John stepped back, giving Sherlock space, and forced a little fake laugh. “I, um. I fixed up a bird’s wing once, my first year at uni. Just found the thing on the ground in front of the science building and figured sure, why not. Couldn’t really keep it in my bedroom, though, so I don’t know whether I did anything that helped. Probably not.”

That sounded . . . entirely like John. Bandaging up a wild bird even though he’d never even get the satisfaction of finding out whether his actions made a difference. “Mine are a bit bigger,” Sherlock said, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

“Yeah, I saw.” John cleared his throat. “Bloody amazing, really.”

 _Amazing._ There was that word again. Sherlock closed his eyes, held his breath, and willed his wings back into existence. He was immediately hit by a wave of pain so intense he doubled over, nearly smacking his forehead on the wall. He would have, if John hadn’t lunged forward and caught at his shoulder (carefully not touching Sherlock’s wing yet and Christ, his plumage must have looked terribly dull and dark with that much pain rocketing around inside him).

“Easy,” John murmured. He gentled his hold on Sherlock’s deltoid, then let go and stepped back to allow Sherlock room to maneuver.

Sherlock tried an experimental flutter. His right wing was clearly much worse off than his left; both were missing feathers but the right also felt off-balance somehow. “Feels wrong when they’re uneven,” he said aloud.

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” John stood quietly while Sherlock twisted and stretched them, testing what was left of his mobility. “May I touch?” he finally asked.

 _Yes. No. God, please do._ Sherlock dropped his chin to his chest and mumbled something John correctly interpreted as acquiescence.

John’s first touch wasn’t hesitant, as Victor’s and the little boy’s had been. Nor was it cruel - he just laid a palm over Sherlock’s lesser coverts and pressed gently.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed.

“Too hard?”

“Just . . . sensitive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John promised. He kept his motions swift and clinical, straightening and unruffling Sherlock’s feathers in little deft movements with absolutely no hint of a tremor, but Sherlock’s head was swimming anyway.

 _Should I tell him?_ Saying “John, your attention to my wings is neurologically equivalent to fondling my cock” was probably a bit too blunt - but Sherlock could feel himself getting hard already, his erection firming against the inside of his trousers, and John would probably find it more than a little Not Good if Sherlock neglected to mention that tiny fact. 

“I love how they - they’re actually changing color, aren’t they?” John asked quietly. “I mean, right now?”

Sherlock twisted around to look over his shoulder at where John was straightening his antebracheal covers, just behind his shoulderblades and under the wing bones. Sure enough, his right wing where John was working was a noticeably lighter shade than his left, the feathers shifting too tellingly at John’s touch. “They react to emotion,” he finally admitted.

John mulled that over for several seconds as he worked. “They got darker when you got hurt,” he concluded.

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t mention the other half of the equation - _they’re getting brighter because you’re you and holy hell, you’re actually touching them_ \- but John was good at this sort of thing. At reading subtext. He’d probably already worked it out.

He didn’t say anything, though, just switched to work on Sherlock’s left wing until it, too, was the same faintly lustrous heather grey. This one went a lot faster, mostly because Moriarty had focused on plucking rather than merely crushing the feathers. John speared his fingers through Sherlock’s ruffled secondary coverts in an achingly delightful movement and Sherlock couldn’t suppress his shiver of longing.

“Good?” John asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Will they grow back?” John asked quietly. “I’m not sure what to do with the broken ones - whether you want me to clip them, or just leave them be, or . . .?”

“They - I’ll moult, eventually,” Sherlock answered in the same low tone. This felt intimate, this discussion, deserving of hushed voices and quiet gravity. “If my wings work anything like a bird’s do, most of them will regrow. The ones where the follicles are damaged, maybe not.”

“I’m sorry,” John whispered.

Sherlock bowed his head. His whole body felt languid, the warmth of John’s attention overtaking even the lingering aches. He was fully hard, now, tenting his trousers if John had only known to look, but John was focused on his task. Bending so close to Sherlock’s wing that his breath ruffled the soft down beneath rumpled the upper layer of feathers. Sherlock shivered again.

John murmured something, shifting marginally closer. “They are soft,” he said quietly. “Whatever else Moriarty said - they are amazingly soft.”

“Th- thank you.”

“Does this feel good?” John dragged his fingers through Sherlock’s feathers again, drawing out a full-body shudder. “Because I love how you feel under my fingertips.”

“Fantastic,” Sherlock admitted. And glanced down at his noticeable erection, visible even more plainly through the fabric of his trousers. _Honesty - he values that._ “Maybe too good,” he added.

“What do you - _oh,_ ” John breathed. Sherlock turned his head very slightly to the side, just enough to catch the sight of John’s eyes widening as he peered over Sherlock’s shoulder and into his lap. “Sensitive, you said.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Should I stop?” His whisper was barely a puff of air against the back of Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock shook his head no.

And then John’s lips touched his neck, and Sherlock couldn’t stop a reflexive groan from escaping, and then he was twisting and John was leaning forward and they were kissing, smooth and soft and glorious, Sherlock’s left wing trapped between them and brushing up against John’s bare chest. He forgot all about his aches and pains, forgot about everything but the feel of John’s fingers trailing down to rest lightly at either side of his waist and John’s lips moving confidently against his own.

“God, I‘ve wanted this for so long,” John murmured against him.

Sherlock could only gasp and nod. He tilted his face back up into John’s, seeking more of that wonderful kiss, which John was only more than happy to bestow. They snogged until Sherlock’s neck was aching from keeping his head at such a strained angle, until his entire groin was tingling with the need to be _touched._ To have John’s hand there, his mouth, his cock-

“I want to be beneath you,” John said, and drew back just enough they could actually see each other properly. “I want to sit where you are right now and have you straddle my lap and just - just wank us both off together, you and me. I want to feel your skin against mine, to feel you moving over me. God, you could probably use your wings for balance, couldn’t you? To shift your weight back and forth until we both come? Please say I can, Sherlock. I don’t think I could bear waiting any longer.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. Even just the thought was a little slice of perfection. And in that moment - in that very moment - he knew what it was to be loved.

*

The rooftop was cold, the wind reducing the temperature from “tolerable” to “downright unpleasant.” Sherlock eyed Moriarty carefully, watching for just the tiniest sign-

“Hurry up now,” Moriarty prodded. “On the ledge. It’s your boyfriend’s life at stake.”

Sherlock stepped up and looked down below him. People, milling around, nobody looking up. John would be here soon. He’d have to be - the universe would surely allow Sherlock one last look, at least? One last chance to see-

“Shirt off,” Moriarty barked. “Quickly. Let me see them.”

Sherlock complied. No point in folding his coat and shirt neatly, this time - he wasn’t going to be up here much longer. He raised his chin as high as he could and sucked in breath after deep breath of London air. He did not unfurl his wings.

Moriarty’s demand seemed more abstract than immediate, though - he lit up at the sight of Sherlock’s bare back. Gloating. “Think you can fly?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged silently. He’d never bothered trying - it was obvious his body wasn’t actually made for flight. Eight feet three inches was way too short to hold up an eleven-stone man. Gliding, maybe, although he’d never even had the opportunity to try that-

“Go ahead,” Moriarty prodded. “Show them. Jump. Either you leave a messy spot on the pavement or you reveal yourself publicly as the freak you know you are. Either way would be a fitting end for such an _illustrious_ career. What’ll it be, Sherlock? Wings and a lifetime government cage? Or let your little pet watch you die?”

A cab pulled up across the street. Even from this distance, Sherlock could tell it was John. His heart ached. John wasn’t looking up, wouldn’t look until it was too late.

“Time to choose, Sherlock. Is confirming what they already think about you really worse than death?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Jumped.

And opened his wings.


End file.
